


A Story of Love and Menswear. Edited for Clarity by Arthur Pendragon

by magog_83



Series: Stories of Love and Menswear [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:32:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magog_83/pseuds/magog_83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU set in the menswear department of a large store (and shamelessly based on my own part time job at BHS during my A Levels where weekend menswear was always ridiculously quiet and staffed by a team of two). 17 year old Arthur is the Saturday supervisor on Menswear, and takes his job very seriously indeed. Merlin is the new boy who Arthur falls in love with at first sight.  Emotional constipation ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Story of Love and Menswear. Edited for Clarity by Arthur Pendragon

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Vensre's kinkmeme prompt, _'For Arthur it was love at first sight, which really just made him grumpier.'_ Except this went off topic a bit, which I didn't think they would mind as they already had a proper and very brilliant fill to their prompt. So consider this a sort of second fill of sorts (with liberties taken as to the prompt).
> 
> Written for Vensre :D

  
A Story of Love and Menswear. Edited for ~~Sap~~ Clarity by Arthur Pendragon   


Arthur never expected to fall in love at first sight. He didn’t even believe in it. It was one of those ridiculous ideas that seemed to feature in every afternoon film on channel five, the films that Morgana pretended she only watched because she wanted to see how traditional romance tropes could be related to a modern feminist discourse, when really she just liked Danielle Steele. So he wasn’t expecting it at all when his department manager, Gwen, brought him some lanky bloke called Merlin and told him he’d be joining the ‘team’ every Saturday (the team being Arthur and his sticker gun). Arthur had looked, and then looked again, and then he’d wondered if that strange breathless feeling was one of those nervous panic attacks he’d read about in Morgana’s Cosmopolitan Magazine (‘Stress and the Modern Woman’), or the sudden onset of adult asthma (since he’d never suffered from it before). Then the lanky bloke had smiled, a bit nervously, and held out a hand to shake and Arthur had gripped it too tightly and...

...and it was quite the most horrifying moment of Arthur’s life. And that included the time his father wore Speedos.

* * *

Because Arthur was a team supervisor, by virtue of his Long and Exemplary Service to Menswear (six months) he had rather a lot of power. And since he had never abused that power before, he felt he was perfectly justified in doing so now. Which was why Merlin spent his first three Saturdays folding jumpers in the far corner of the Menswear Department, close enough that Arthur could still glare at him, but far enough away that he could no longer quite make out the clean slant of cheekbones and the blue of his eyes.

It seemed a good plan.

* * *

“Why do _I_ have to till train him?”

Arthur thought he had shown endurance of epic proportions, all things (and dimples) considered, so he didn’t know why Gwen would choose to torture him this way.

“Because you are his supervisor, Arthur. You were supposed to have done it two weeks ago.”

Arthur had always thought Gwen's friendly facade concealed a cold, heartless interior. Apparently, he was right. It didn’t help that Merlin looked so excited at the prospect, all bright eyes and ~~dimples~~ idiocy.

“Fine! But if he blows up the till, it’s not my fault.”

Merlin didn’t blow up the till. Merlin pressed against Arthur all down his right side and caught his tongue between his teeth in concentration and smelt of coconut soap, and Arthur couldn’t move back any further unless he wanted to be stabbed by shelving or was prepared to demolish a wall (he did consider it). Arthur had used the till hundreds of times by now, so it made no sense that his hands should be clammy and his fingers should feel like they’d multiplied until he fumbled his executive supervisor pen and was forced to bend down and fetch it and get much too close to Merlin’s knees. Which was only reason his face was so red.

“Got it!” Merlin announced a bit suddenly, as the till drawer slid smoothly open with a reassuring ‘ding’ and Arthur straightened, pen in hand and not looking at all dishevelled. Then Merlin beamed at Arthur and Arthur thought he might be getting one of those panic asthma attack things again (or whatever they were) and also that he might be running a temperature. He thought Merlin might be too, if the fine wash of red on those cheekbones was anything to go by. And that wouldn’t do at all, so Arthur abandoned him to his new found till ability and ~~ran away~~ went to reduce men’s pants for the autumn sale (30% off) while Merlin proceeded to charm all the customers with his stupid dimples and flair for wrapping.

* * *

The problem with Merlin being so ~~irresistible~~ irritating, was that Arthur tended to think about him more that was normal. He thought about him at college during the week, when he was supposed to be taking notes on French verbs, and then he thought about him at home too, when his father was droning on about the business, and Morgana was smirking at him from behind her magazine. In fact, Morgana’s smirking seemed to be proportional to Arthur’s scowling, and he was beginning to get lines, proper deeply etched lines, as he tried not to think about Merlin and Merlin insisted on bouncing through his imagination anyway, just like he bounced into work on Saturdays, always with a bright smile and impervious to Arthur’s finely honed glare. It was enough to make anyone grumpy and the worst thing was that the whole ~~love~~ irritation at first sight thing wasn’t getting any better. Merlin smiled at him and chattered away and learned to fold jumpers without even needing to look away from Arthur’s frowning face and Arthur... Arthur was running out of pants to mark down and sometimes he had to fight the smile that threatened and he thought that Merlin _knew_ , that he actually suspected Arthur of having thoughts unbecoming of his supervisory position. Merlin was too tall, and too gangly and too happy and his hair was too... well, too something. All black and sort of soft looking, and it curled over his ears just the right amount. Sometimes Arthur spent whole minutes glaring at his hair, because no hair should look that ~~touchable~~ clean, it wasn’t normal.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You were looking at my hair! What’s wrong with it? Oh god, you’ve put something in it haven’t you?! What have you put in it? Is it glue?”

Fortunately Merlin could be relied upon not to understand the subtle nuances of Arthur’s Feelings.

* * *

Arthur was down to work the whole weekend before Christmas and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, they were supposed to dress up. Something ‘Christmassy,’ apparently. Arthur went as Scrooge. Merlin spent the whole day insisting he was Bob Cratchitt in disguise and by lunchtime Arthur couldn’t even be bothered to correct the tea lady when she said “God bless us, everyone!” (which was Tiny Tim anyway. It was like no-one had even seen Muppet’s Christmas Carol).

Merlin was an elf. An ~~adorable~~ stupid elf, with a hat and a green tunic and pointy Vulcan ears which Merlin kept insisting were elven. It was going to be a bad weekend, Arthur could tell. In fact he’d been telling himself that over and over in the empty men’s changing room, face pressed against the cool glass, after Merlin had bounced up to ask if he’d been a good boy this year. On Sunday, Arthur faked debilitating illness, but his father (who was a sadist) just told him a horrifying story about the time he’d closed a multi-million pound deal while suffering from irritable bowel syndrome and the next thing Arthur knew, he was being dropped off at the staff entrance, only a few minutes late but not late enough to avoid Merlin the Elf who seemed to be waiting to torture him by the loading bay.

“You’re late.”

“I know.”

“You’re never late.”

“Today I am.”

“Why?”

“I was ill.”

“You’re never ill.”

“Well I was today, all right?”

Merlin didn’t look remotely abashed. “Was it the surgery? Were there complications?”

Arthur stopped, “What surgery?”

Merlin grinned at him, “The humour bypass operation - I hear they can turn nasty. Sometimes there are even puns.”

Arthur threw him his most withering look, which just made Merlin grin wider, and then pushed ahead through the double doors, Merlin at his heels, whistling some infernal Christmas tune.

* * *

“I like Eddie Izzard,” Arthur said the first Saturday after Christmas, when he was lurking by the ties, ‘supervising’ Merlin’s restocking of the packaged shirts.

“Pardon?” Merlin said, seemingly distracted by the blue long sleeved pile, which involved him bending his head down just enough to give Arthur a tantalising glimpse of his neck, disappearing below the collar of his shirt, shadowed and smooth.

Arthur dragged his eyes away. “Eddie Izzard, I think he’s funny. I have his DVDs and stuff.”

“Uh... ok,” said Merlin after a moment, the little crease appearing between his eyebrows as he carefully lined up the shirts on their shelf. Arthur had come to know that crease all too well, since Merlin utilised it in a variety of situations and always to great, if unwitting, success. It was the look he got when he was worrying about something, or sad, or tired, or stressed, or any number of things that made Arthur fidgety and unhappy and 100% more likely to let Merlin go on his break early or even, in some extreme cases, to swap jobs with him so Merlin was smiling and serving on the tills again and Arthur was sorting through the “bloody impossible” promotional signage that had nearly caused Merlin a terrible injury (so really, Arthur was just doing his job as supervisor and First Aider for Menswear, and if made Merlin happy too, well that was entirely secondary). But today it appeared Merlin was merely concentrating, because after giving the pile of shirts a final tweak he looked up.

“Sorry, you were saying? About Eddie Izzard?”

Arthur leaned forward to inspect his work, “I was just saying that I like him, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Merlin looked a bit nonplussed, and then his brow furrowed once more. “This isn’t about that joke I made at Christmas is it? About the humour bypass, ‘cause I was only messing about.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Arthur said at once, dusting an (invisible) bit of lint off the topmost shirt. “I’m just making conversation.” Arthur often found himself making conversation these days, Merlin made the most ridiculous faces when he was talking.

“I like him too,” Merlin offered after a moment, as Arthur stared valiantly at the sign for men’s slippers so he wouldn’t be tempted to watch Merlin’s mouth instead. “Did you see him when he came to the Arts Festival in Vicky Park last year? He was amazing.”

Arthur hadn’t seen him. The Arts Festival was in Easter holidays and he’d been away with his father and Morgana in France. “No, I wasn’t here.”

Merlin shrugged, enthusiasm, as ever, undimmed. “Well he’s coming again this year, I heard. We should go!” Arthur couldn’t help staring at him then, though he soon regretted it when Merlin eyes widened and Arthur thought he could almost _see_ his brain catching up with his ~~gorgeous~~ mouth. “Er...” Merlin began again, reddening in a way that made Arthur’s heart beat faster, “Not if you don’t want to. I mean, I only thought we could go, you know, as—” Arthur must have looked panicked because Merlin’s words petered out, “as a team?” Merlin’s face was almost entirely red by that point, and Arthur suspected his was not much better, so he cleared his throat and muttered something that Merlin clearly chose to interpret as an affirmative (if the ludicrous smile was anything to go by) before he stalked away to do some urgent dusting that would keep him away from Merlin for at least half an hour.

* * *

By March, Arthur had started a rubber band ball, and it was growing rather impressively. It had started simply enough, just a couple of spare rubber bands on the till point wound round and round his fingers as Merlin wittered on about some film he’d seen and his hands, god his _hands_ , waved about in his enthusiasm, all pale, strong fingers and narrow wrists. After that it just seemed easier to keep picking up the rubber bands again and adding to them every time he was faced with Merlin for longer than a minute (he’d unfortunately snapped his executive supervisor pen one afternoon in late February when Merlin had been up on the stepladder hanging t-shirts and his shirt had pulled free from his trousers, rising just enough to expose a tantalising strip of skin and one jutting hip bone). All things considered, Arthur was becoming rather fond of his rubber band ball, and found it surprisingly therapeutic to snap the bands every time he felt the horribly familiar ~~love~~ irritation creeping up as Merlin smiled at him and Arthur fought the urge to scowl. Arthur had started to notice that the scowling was causing the dreaded creasing of the brow and something that looked horrifyingly like hurt in Merlin’s eyes. This had led to a fraught, though brief, internal battle between Arthur’s natural irritation and general grumpiness at this whole awful situation, and the terrible empty feeling in his stomach that resulted from Merlin looking sad (even though he’d just eaten). And looking sad at _Arthur_ , which was somehow ten times worse than him looking sad because there were no pastries left in the staff canteen (luckily Arthur happened to have a spare kit kat in his bag that day, so Merlin didn’t go hungry).

Merlin’s feelings toward the rubber band ball were less easily defined. He seemed to have taken a dislike to it, though if asked he said he thought it was very creative – and then went back to casting it suspiciously dark looks when he thought Arthur couldn’t see him (unfortunately, Arthur could always see him). Arthur wondered if it was annoying him, the way Arthur clutched at it like a lifeline, adding more and more bands whenever Merlin sought him out for a chat at the end of the day, when the till was already tidy, and the shop floor neat, and they were just waiting for the store to close. But really, it was either that or grabbing Merlin, and Arthur was certain Merlin would rather he use up another box of rubber bands, than drag Merlin into the changing room and have his wicked way with him. Wouldn’t he? Arthur most certainly ~~wouldn’t~~ would.

Once, Merlin told him a lengthy anecdote about an ex-boyfriend and Arthur snapped a band clean off and nearly lost an eye.

That just made him grumpier.

* * *

Considering how stressful his working life was at the best of times, the annual stock take just seemed to be an added torture for Arthur to endure. He was being forced to work on a Thursday night, taking over from the weekday menswear team, and tasked with finishing formal trousers, shirts and socks. Arthur felt very odd being in work in his jeans and t-shirt, but it was seven o’clock at night and the store was closed and his usual suit and tie had been banned by Gwen. But even worse was Merlin. Merlin was wearing a hooded sweatshirt that made him look both edible and homeless, and Arthur had had to fetch a bottle of water from the canteen and hide it under the till to swig occasionally because his mouth had started going dry every time Merlin pulled the sleeves down over his palms, curling his long fingers around the fraying edges. The usual store radio had been switched off at six of course, but some bright spark had put on the local radio instead so he and Merlin were working to the sounds of the Classic Hour. Between the plaintive tones of Donny Osmond, and Merlin’s too close proximity, Arthur was already beginning to feel a little warm, not to mention distinctly uncomfortable, and they weren’t even half way through their shift yet. To make things even worse, Merlin seemed to be developing a cold. He kept clearing his throat and fidgeting and he looked a little flushed. Twice, Arthur suggested (grudgingly of course) that he was welcome to take a break , he even offered his water bottle, but Merlin just said no, and flushed a bit more and started telling Arthur some long and pointless story about the bowling night some of the weekend staff had organised and how much fun it sounded. Arthur nodded along and scanned some golfing socks rather aggressively and hoped Merlin wasn’t coming down with glandular fever like that boy in his class had when he was thirteen – he’d been off school for _months._

“Do you like bowling?” said Merlin, finally breaking through Arthur’s self-imposed haze of point, scan, press enter and repeat ~~and don’t brush against any part of Merlin~~.

Arthur carefully inputted the last line of golf socks in navy blue, and said cautiously, not looking away from the little electronic screen. “I don’t mind it. Morgana is better at it though.”

Merlin knew all about Morgana. He’d somehow tricked Arthur into revealing his step-sister’s existence in late November and then had the gall to get on frighteningly well with her when she called by to see Arthur at work one Saturday (in fact, Arthur had a feeling her smirking tendency had become markedly more pronounced around the same time). “Well there’s only one way to beat her, you know,” Merlin said, fiddling with a coat hanger.

“Vaseline her bowling shoes?” Arthur said without thought, then mentally kicked himself as Merlin grinned delightedly, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that caused Arthur’s immense feelings of ~~love~~ irritation to temporarily overwhelm him.

“That’s one way,” Merlin was saying happily, when Arthur finally stopped gazing hopelessly at his smiling mouth and tuned back in to the present. “Or you could practice, you know, some time she won’t know about. Then next time she challenges you, she won’t know what’s hit her.”

Arthur was fairly sure there had to be a catch to this plan.

“Some time like the bowling night tomorrow,” Merlin went on, proving Arthur right (as always).

Arthur panicked, since Merlin appeared to be suggesting he spend a whole evening in the company of ~~his beloved~~ his work colleagues. “I don’t have a car,” he blurted out.

“That’s ok, I can pick you up,” Merlin said at once.

“I get travel sick,” said Arthur (panic was really not his friend).

“I’ll bring a sick bag,” said Merlin, “It’s not far anyway, only twenty minutes or so.”

Twenty minutes in a car alone with Merlin.

Arthur would probably propose.

“I really don’t think I—” Arthur began, and Merlin’s face _fell_ , it actually fell – like he was disappointed Arthur wouldn’t be sitting in his passenger seat clutching a sick bag (which he didn’t really need, thank you very much). Faced with Merlin looking at Arthur like he’d stolen the last pastry, it was hardly surprising Arthur found himself saying something that sounded suspiciously like “yes” and following that with what sounded like his _actual address_. Merlin inputted it carefully into his phone, and then asked for Arthur’s phone number too (just in case he got lost on the way), sticking his tongue out as he typed, and Arthur was hard pressed not to push him up against the golf socks and kiss him senseless. The world was mocking him. And he didn’t even have his rubber band ball.

* * *

Arthur spent most of Friday afternoon playing computer games. Violent computer games, where he got to have a stick and hit people with it repeatedly. Morgana rolled her eyes at him from where she was lounging on the sofa, eating cornflakes and snorting every time ‘Game Over’ flashed on the screen until Arthur glared and they spent a fruitful half an hour sniping at each other. It made Arthur feel somewhat less tense about the coming evening (which he had made sure to tell Morgana was just a works drink). It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t socialise with his work colleagues, it was just that he... didn’t socialise with his work colleagues. And he most certainly didn’t socialise with _Merlin_ , the very thought made his stomach churn unpleasantly. He bashed a few more monsters over the head, to lift his spirits, and then wondered if he could call in sick. Except a bowling evening wasn’t technically work, and anyway, Merlin hadn’t given him _his_ number, he’d just stolen Arthur’s. So Arthur was helpless to avoid him and his imminent doom.

By seven o’clock, he had driven Morgana out of the sitting room entirely with what she called his “incessant fidgeting and bad temper.” Not that Arthur was nervous. He had nothing to be nervous about, after all, it wasn’t as if he needed Merlin’s approval. If anything, Merlin should be seeking _his_ approval, since Arthur was his supervisor and got to decide who had to Mr Muscle all the mirrors in the changing rooms at the end of the day. Nervousness had nothing to do with his sudden need to alphabetize all the DVDs, or his need to check his watch and tut loudly every fifteen seconds (not that Merlin could hear him).

He had got as far as ‘M’ when the doorbell suddenly burst into ‘Ode to Joy’ (which had been entirely his father’s idea, encouraged by Morgana), and he fumbled Mad Max and Muppet’s Christmas Carol and nearly concussed himself trying to retrieve them from down the side of the cabinet. Fortunately, he still made it to the door before Morgana and yanked it open while she was still rushing down the stairs, which earned him a disappointed pout.

“Hi,” said Merlin, almost before Arthur finished opening the door. “Sorry I’m late,” he added immediately, completely ruining Arthur’s opening line and leaving him with nothing to do but stare. Which was dangerous, because Merlin looked— Well, he looked different. And not in the bad way that might make this whole evening bearable, but in a way that made Arthur want to lick his collarbones (which would probably earn him some sort of disciplinary procedure at work for staff harassment). Also, it was possible Merlin had combed his hair, or flattened it a bit, or something, and he hadn’t even done that when they’d had their six month review – all of which was contributing to the heavy feeling of doom in Arthur’s stomach (that, and the dodgy pizza he’d had for tea).

“What have you done to your hair?” he blurted out, before he could stop himself.

“Oh,” Merlin raised a hand to smooth it down some more and blushed, and Arthur’s traitorous eyes couldn’t help but track the colour, “This is what it’s always like.”

“No it isn’t,” said Arthur, who prided himself on his honesty. Morgana elbowed him in the ribs as she pushed past, and gave him a dark look that was completely uncalled for.

“Merlin! How lovely to see you again.”

“Hi, Morgana.” Merlin said, and gave a slightly hesitant wave, and Morgana smiled and dear god, was that her _flirtatious smile?_

 _“Goodbye,_ Morgana,” Arthur said very pointedly, but Morgana just smirked as Arthur yanked his coat off the peg and practically marched Merlin to his car (fortunately Merlin didn’t seem to mind). It had been a while since Arthur had flicked through the Employee Handbook, but he was fairly sure there was a section in there about inappropriate relationships with predatory older sisters.

“Have fun!” Morgana called out, like the man eater she was.

Arthur was so busy narrowing his eyes at her, he almost missed Merlin opening the passenger door for him. Which was unexpected.

“Uh... thanks,” said Arthur. Merlin beamed at him and did a strange little ushering motion with his hand (honestly, it was like the man actually _wanted_ Arthur to lick his collarbones). Arthur gave him a slightly suspicious look and then got in. Merlin’s car was certainly nicer than he had expected. A bit battered looking, but clean at least – if you ignored the Werther’s Original wrappers which were wedged into the side pocket of the door. Merlin got in and fussed about with his seatbelt and then stalled the car twice (which wasn’t inspiring Arthur with confidence for the coming drive) before they finally made it down the drive way and onto the main road. Merlin leaned forward to fiddle with the radio and suddenly Donny Osmond blared out.

“Sorry,” said Merlin, sheepishly, “It only picks up the one channel.”

 _“And they called it Puppy Loooove!”_ crooned Donny from the crackling speakers.

Arthur was doomed.

* * *

An hour later, Arthur was squashed into a plastic booth between Jimmy from the stock room and Merlin and trying to stop his leg jiggling up and down. Merlin kept clapping (no matter how many times Arthur pointed out that the people he was clapping for were on the opposing team), and every time his raised his arms they brushed against Arthur’s, and Arthur could actually _feel_ his arm tingling. It felt a bit like the time he’d had chicken pox. Merlin was sipping the coke that Arthur had bought him - as Merlin had driven him there, Arthur had thought it was only polite to buy him a drink. He didn’t think there was any need for Merlin to have looked quite so pleased about it; it was only a coke after all – what with Merlin being the designated driver. Arthur had the rather lowering feeling he would have bought him any drink he’d wanted, and damn the consequences, but Merlin had said a coke, and so a coke it was. He was perfectly entitled to sip the thing, Arthur just wished he could stop staring at his throat as he swallowed and imagining... other things.

“Your go!” Merlin said, knocking his knee against Arthur’s in what Arthur thought was a thoroughly distracting way.

“What?” said Arthur, thoroughly distracted.

“I thought you wanted to beat Morgana.”

Actually, what Arthur wanted to do was nibble Merlin’s ear, but in the absence of that possibility he thought he might as well become a champion bowler and humiliate Morgana at their next family games night.

He knocked down two. It seemed world domination would have to wait.

It was all Merlin’s fault of course, firstly because there was absolutely nothing wrong with Arthur’s grip of the bowling ball, and secondly because he certainly hadn’t needed Merlin’s rather questionable ‘help’ in learning to grip it ‘properly.’

* * *

When Arthur was eight, he’d had a guinea pig called Philip (ask Morgana), and the thing _was_ , Arthur hadn’t even wanted a guinea pig, he’d wanted a tarantula that he could hide in Morgana’s bedroom. But his father had got him a guinea pig instead, because his secretary Susan had suggested it, and because he thought it would teach Arthur the value of Responsibility. So Arthur had been given Philip, and he’d not been very happy about it at all. It wasn’t that Philip had been vicious; in fact he was almost ridiculously good natured from the first and liked nothing more than falling asleep on Arthur’s lap. It was just that Arthur hadn’t wanted him, and didn’t want to like him, and when Morgana had pulled open the box from the pet shop and lifted him out, Arthur had given Philip a very dark look and silently dared him to ingratiate himself. But Philip hadn’t gone away, or been eaten by next door’s cat, or turned into a tarantula, he’d just sat in his cage and eaten all the lettuce Arthur could stuff through the bars and looked, well, _cute_ , in a way Arthur hadn’t expected a guinea pig to look. And after a while Arthur had started to take him out in the garden with him, and check on him before school, and bring him carrot peelings and Philip didn’t seem to care that Arthur muttered at him when he was doing it, and refused to hold him in public. Of course Philip hadn’t done any of those things because he was a guinea pig. But that wasn’t the point, the point was that Arthur had resisted and resisted and given Philip ever grumpier looks, and then found himself chasing next door’s cat with a garden hose when he’d found it trying to corner Philip beneath the hydrangeas.

The problem with that analogy was that Merlin was not a guinea pig, and he didn’t like lettuce because he’d once found a ladybird in his salad. But Arthur felt the principle was much the same. Kind of. He blamed bowling. And Merlin. If Merlin hadn’t tried to teach him to bowl, he would never have done so atrociously badly, and he would have had a far better excuse for not going again the following week. But he didn’t, and they had, and if anything Arthur was actually getting worse at bowling and Morgana was getting better at smirking, and Merlin had started waiting for him outside the loading bay on Saturday mornings and texting him during the week for no reason at all except that he’d heard something he thought Arthur might find funny. That Arthur usually _did_ find it funny was entirely beside the point.

And if work had been tortuous before, it most certainly was now. Merlin chatted and made stupid jokes and seemed determined to _brush against Arthur_ at every opportunity and even Gwen was starting to ask questions – apparently the department’s rubber band usage had never been so high and she’d had to order in extra. It could only end one way – and Arthur really, really didn’t want to transfer to Lingerie.

“Are you alright?” Merlin asked, when the lust became too much and Arthur was forced to obsessively sort coat hangers.

“Yes, why?” One of the thirty-eight inch waist coat hangers seemed to be stuck in the box.

“You look a bit... stressed.”

“I’m fine,” said Arthur, and pulled the hanger free with such force it flew out of his hand and knocked the Mr Muscle off the shelf.

Merlin picked up the Mr Muscle with nary a blink and then plopped himself on the till point, swinging his legs back and forth. Arthur really ought to say something about that (the Employee Handbook was very specific on sitting on the furnishings), but then Merlin smiled at him and leaned forward to help with the recalcitrant hangers and Arthur decided to let it pass, just this once, in the interests of departmental harmony, and because the department was currently empty but for an middle aged man choosing a new dressing gown. “I know what you need, some time off! What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?”

Arthur wasn’t doing anything that he could think of (and he thought very hard), so he had no choice but to admit it and before he knew it, he was going to see some film he had never heard of at half past three _with Merlin_.

It was all getting completely out of hand, and Arthur was going to do something about it – right after this cinema trip (since Merlin seemed to be looking forward to it so much).

* * *

In the end, Arthur should have known it would be like Philip all over again.

Kind of.

Two Saturdays later he was minding his own business, restocking some boxer shorts, and not thinking about Merlin’s neck and the way his hair curled just a little against the nape, when he heard the man’s annoyed tones. He looked, but he could only see a customer standing at the till and Merlin smiling his most ~~charming~~ professional smile. Arthur frowned a little as the man started gesturing forcefully – was he _immune_ to the smile? Then Merlin’s smile actually faltered and disappeared, and Arthur found himself half way across the floor to the till point before he realised he was still carrying an armful of Looney Tunes novelty pants.

“Is there a problem?” The words came out a little more aggressively than Arthur had intended, but Merlin’s face was going red, and not in the usual ~~adorable~~ acceptable way.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, looking so relieved at Arthur’s sudden appearance that Arthur could almost forget he was holding cartoon underwear. “This gentleman was looking for a suit he’d had put back behind the till, but I think it must have been put back out on the shop floor.”

“I _asked_ for it to be kept for me,” interrupted the man, in a tone that suggested he thought he was speaking to a twelve year old. “Apparently this was a little difficult for your staff to understand, and now this idiot tells me there is no more stock at all.”

Merlin’s flush deepened as he replied, “I’m sorry, sir, those suits were extremely popular. Perhaps if you wanted to order—”

“No thank you, I wouldn’t trust you to get that right either.”

“Can I ask when you asked for it to be kept back?” Arthur cut in, before Merlin could reply.

“Tuesday,” snapped the ~~moron~~ man.

“Then I’m afraid sir, that no mistake has been made,” said Arthur, doing his best to quell his triumph. “We only hold items for customers for three days. After that it would have been put back for sale – which in this case would have been Friday at the latest. I’m very sorry if there has been a misunderstanding in this case, but it’s not the fault of my colleague.” The temptation to add “so there!” was briefly all too strong, but Arthur resisted, like the supervisory professional he was.

Something of his feelings must have shown through, because the man reddened angrily, and snapped, “I would like to make a complaint about your attitude.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Arthur, moving around the till to stand slightly in front of Merlin and discarding the Looney Tune boxers (which hardly seemed appropriate to the situation). Then he pulled a Customer Comment form from the drawer and passed it across the counter, plonking his (new!) executive supervisor pen down next to it with something of a flourish. “My name is Arthur Pendragon, and my staff number is 78.”

“And you?” barked the man, glaring at Merlin.

Merlin looked a bit taken aback at the man’s tone. “My name is—”

“As supervisor I am ultimately responsible for this department,” said Arthur smoothly, “So any complaints are directed to me.” This was something of a loose interpretation of the Employee’s Handbook, but if anyone was going to be glowering at Merlin and calling him an idiot, it was damn well going to be Arthur.

The ~~pompous windbag~~ customer narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Arthur wasn’t the son of a millionaire CEO for nothing and he stared back coolly, and then stepped firmly on Merlin’s foot when he took a breath to (doubtless) argue. Finally the man snatched the form, and the pen, and said, “You’ll be hearing from your line manager,” before with a final disgruntled look he marched away – stealing Arthur’s executive supervisor pen in the process.

“Good riddance!” muttered Arthur with great satisfaction as he watched him go. Then he turned to look for his boxer shorts, saying firmly, “If that happens again, Merlin, make sure you—” which was as far as he got before Merlin pushed him up against the shelving and kissed him soundly.

“Merlin! We’re on the shop floor,” Arthur gasped, scandalised, when Merlin drew back and looked at Arthur like— Well, like he wanted to be _extremely_ unprofessional quite soon.

“Oh right, sorry,” said Merlin breathlessly, and then he yanked Arthur after him into the empty changing rooms and proceeded to kiss him again, licking his bottom lip in a way that made Arthur’s knees feel wobbly and almost made him forget about the matter in hand, which was—

“Merlin, I am your supervisor and we—”

“It’s ok,” said Merlin, leaning back just enough for Arthur to focus and good god, when had his hands found their way to the back of Merlin’s shirt? “I read the Employee Handbook, just in case, and I think we come under short term part time staff, but I wasn’t sure, so I checked with Gwen—”

“You—”

“And she said it was fine, since you can’t treat me favourably to other staff if you haven’t got any - if that’s what was worrying you. I mean,” Merlin flushed a little and Arthur leaned forward almost without realising, “I was hoping that’s what was worrying you. Is it? Worrying you?” The last was said more hesitantly and the crease was back and he looked nervous, like whatever Arthur said next would actually matter.

Arthur took a few deep breaths, and made his hands relax their grip, just a little, before he spoke. “You asked Gwen?”

Merlin blinked, “Yes?”

“When?”

“In March.”

“Oh,” said Arthur. Then he frowned, “That was nearly three months ago.” No wonder Gwen had been giving him those shifty looks.

“Well yes, and then I asked you out and we—”

“Wait, you did what?”

Merlin stared at him in confusion, “Asked you out - to bowling, and the cinema, and that band night, and then last week at the park.”

Suddenly a few things were beginning to make sense to Arthur, and with it the growing realisation that when Merlin had awkwardly said he looked hot last week, he might not have been criticising Arthur’s choice of jumper. Did this mean Merlin actually _did_ want Arthur to lick his collarbones? “I didn’t—” began Arthur, then stopped, overwhelmed by the possibilities.

It seemed the fact that Arthur was still standing close to Merlin, so close they were breathing each other’s air, instead of running from the changing rooms gave Merlin courage. “So, can we... you know, go back to the kissing?”

Arthur thought about it for a ~~millisecond~~ minute, “I suppose that would be—” but then Merlin’s mouth was on his again and they were stumbling backwards and Arthur couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first, the ears, the hair, the hands, the cheekbones – all the parts that made up the ~~intoxicating~~ irritating individual that was Merlin, and which had been driving Arthur insane for far too long. It had been an embarrassingly long time since Arthur had kissed anyone, but Merlin didn’t seem to care and Arthur couldn’t remember it feeling like _this_ even when he had. All things considered, he decided to just gloss over the rather desperate sound he made when Merlin pulled back, bare inches away, his mouth red and his breathing as loud as Arthur’s in the enclosed space.

“Sorry!” Merlin panted, not that Arthur could work out what he was sorry for. “I know we shouldn’t do this at work, and it’s against your Supervisory Code or whatever, but I’ve been wanting to do that for ages.”

“Uh...” said Arthur eloquently, having forgotten he was even _at_ work. Then he pulled himself together – he hadn’t saved Merlin from a complaint form only to get them both sacked minutes later. “No, of course, we should...” He lost his train of thought briefly when Merlin leaned back in for another kiss, apparently unable to resist (Arthur understood the feeling all too well, though he prided himself on having shown superior willpower these past months). “Back to work,” he managed. “We should, uh, do this later.”

“Ok,” said Merlin, with a brilliant smile that made Arthur feel hot and breathless all at once.

After that, restocking boxer shorts didn’t seem quite so important, but Arthur did it anyway, because he was a consummate professional, and because if he stood by the underwear he had a good view of Merlin at the till. It didn’t help that Merlin kept miming how many hours they had left at work – but not everyone could be as professional as Arthur. Of course that professionalism only lasted so long, and when the announcement came over the tannoy that they could go, he let Merlin drag him up the stairs at a run to retrieve their bags from the lockers, and found himself outside in the evening sunshine in what must have been record time.

“So...” Arthur said, lamely, feeling a familiar awkwardness creep up as they stood together on the pavement.

Merlin swung his bag onto his shoulder and seized Arthur’s hand tightly, flushed with excitement, “Come on, I have it all worked out.”

So Arthur went, feeling a bit dazed and a whole lot less grumpy. But he supposed that being in such a responsible position in his working life, it was only right that he let Merlin take over in private.

The End.


End file.
